Whispers
by rainbowsindecember
Summary: Rukawa Kaede and ... ? Slightly sexual, so consider yourself warned. Non-yaoi, really.


**Whispers**

Whispers. Rukawa Kaede hears them, all the time, even as he pretends he does not. As a boy of sixteen, undoubtedly he will endure the endless ribbing from his uhh, _friends_ – team mates, more like. Those he manages, as boys, they say, will be boys. At least they have the decency to be brashly blunt about their teasing on court and off, in the locker room, in the showers, wherever.

There are whispers, and then there are _whispers_; the sort that are made with a half-laugh, intended as a joke but not quite. Those are the kind he despises the most; they speak of made-up bits of information that make their way around the school halls as swear-it's-true gossip. He doesn't quite understand the malicious delight taken in those whispers, shared over bento sets _okaa-san_ packed lovingly for their lunch. He eats alone, since he can't be bothered with the whispers masquerading as conversation, but he knows eyes are on him as he swallows down the last morsel of food.

Every little step, it seems, is a treasure trove of shiny bits and ends to scavenge amongst.

He supposes the whispers are born out of curiosity. After all, he is Shohoku High's ace, finally beginning to turn things around for the basketball team. He is only a first-year, but part of the starting line-up; no easy feat, but he knows he deserves the spot. He is more than tall (187 cm the last time he checked) and heartbreakingly handsome (at least, that's what he always hears). Who wouldn't be interested to know more about his elusive life? Which girl would not want that chance to have one date with him?

Still, the whispers. He heard the most ridiculous one today: Rukawa Kaede is gay. His fool team mates had rolled around on the floor laughing uproariously over that, and then spent the better part of practice snickering whenever they had to block him from making his routine shots. Annoyed as hell, he accidentally-on-purpose brushed Sakuragi's crotch with his behind, and was mildly gratified to hear an unmanly shriek from the redheaded buffoon.

"I knew it! I KNEW IT! You ARE gay, kitsune!"

And to that, Rukawa snorted and went back to making his lay-up completely unguarded.

If only they knew.

He only knows of silky black hair against the stark white pillows of his bed. Soft and shining, they slip through his fingers like satin strands. He will brush that beautiful black hair off a porcelain face, smooth and unblemished in its perfection. Trace the outline of sloping almost-almond eyes, crystal blue. Gently stroke the high, straight nose that rests in the middle of the feminine face. Then, his fingertips touch the rosebud mouth, small and delicate in its pink bloom, and slide inside to find the inside warm and wet, just as he likes.

He moves his hand to stroke the swan-like neck, and is pleased to note the trembling pulse beneath his fingers. Lower still, the collarbones peep enticingly from below the modest cotton shirt. He removes it and draws in a breath as he takes in the sight of the chest rising and falling in a rhythmic, hypnotic motion. Nipples that have hardened from friction and cold stand in contrast against fair, creamy skin in the darkness of his room.

The tip of his index finger brushes one, and the body arches. He tweaks one rounded tip and then the other, pinching slightly and he is satisfied at the panting, heavy breaths. His hands slide across the flat, toned stomach, pleased there is not an extra inch of fat. Good. They've been working hard, then. As a reward, a large palm creeps beneath the elastic waistband and gently tugs on the dark curls he knows he will find.

Rukawa will start to moan at this point.

Oh, no. Rukawa Kaede is not gay, he thinks as he continues touching himself. For that, he needs to love another man the way he is supposed to one day fall in love with a girl and marry her and have five children – three boys and two girls – who will carry on the Rukawa family name.

But for now, he is just too much in love with himself for any of that.

* * *

AN: Self-love in its purest form. Haha. Morbid humour. I am sick in the head.


End file.
